


Reaching

by mrs_d



Series: International Cooperation [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, due South
Genre: Comfort Sex, Crossover, Fraser is in the Marvelverse technically, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Major character death is off-screen, Mentions of PTSD and social anxiety, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Series (due South), Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Rogers looked Ben up and down as he passed, and a slight shadow seemed to cross his face. Ben met those blue eyes, and for a few seconds, he couldn’t help but think that, despite the pageantry and celebration, Steve Rogers looked as lost and lonely as Ben felt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reaching

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Clementine. How we got from our moment of inspiration (immortalized [here](http://mrsdawnaway.tumblr.com/post/125727418229/famous-last-words)) to this story, I'll never know. It's been a hell of ride, hasn't it? Thanks for sticking with me.

If Benton closed his eyes, Ray might have been there, his lips warm against his neck, his lean body pressed to his back, his arms around his waist.

“Damn, Frase,” Ray might have muttered into Ben’s ear, distracting him as he fumbled with the brass buttons and stiff collar of his dress uniform. “Sure is harder to get you into that thing than it is to get you out. Lucky for me I get the easier job, huh?”

But Ray wasn’t there.

On good days, Ben was glad that Ray wasn’t trapped in the Borderlands. On bad days, Ben was furious that Ray could be gone without a trace, that he could have fallen out of his life the way he’d fallen into it fifteen years ago.

Ben had a hard time telling the good days from the bad anymore.

A knock startled him. He checked his watch to find that he was a minute away from being late. He grabbed his Stetson and opened the door. A SHIELD agent stood in the hall, as Ben had expected, her black suit a stunning contrast to her white-blonde hair.

“Sergeant Fraser,” she greeted him. “Are you ready?” He nodded and followed her toward the elevator. “I assume you’re familiar with the part you’re to play in this operation?” she asked over her shoulder.

“I am,” he replied, as politely as ever; though, since she couldn’t see it, Ben allowed himself an ironic, tight-lipped smile. Of course he knew his part in this operation. It was the same part he’d been playing since his transfer to Ottawa six months ago. A spot of colour at the Prime Minister’s side, he was to stand up straight, shake hands, and tell stories of the far North whenever anyone asked.

Ray would have hated it.

They stepped into the elevator and rode down in silence. While the agent directed her attention to a slim telephone with the SHIELD emblem bright on its screen, Ben stared at his blurry red reflection in the chrome doors.

* * *

The Canadian delegation was gathering in the lobby outside the entrance to the conference room. Three CAF generals, the RCMP top brass, and a few cabinet ministers were chatting amiably with the Prime Minister, while the other Mounties, none of them in red serge, conversed in an undertone with a handful of uniformed soldiers and dark-clad CSIS agents. Ben could see where their weapons were concealed; despite there being many new and serious security threats since the Battle of New York, hand guns carried so casually still bothered Ben. Perhaps they always would.

“Sergeant Fraser,” called the RCMP Commissioner, approaching him and shaking his hand. “So glad you could join us for this momentous occasion.”

“As am I, Sir,” Ben replied. Ray would have noticed that his tone was too hearty.

“May I just say how privileged we are to have you here,” the Commissioner continued. “Your father was a legend, and to have a Mountie of your stature from the North on this auspicious day — well, it just feels right, doesn’t it? Somehow extra Canadian?”

Before Ben could think how to reply to that, the Commissioner turned his back on him. The British and French delegations were arriving, streaming in from a side corridor. SHIELD agents hovered as the nations’ leaders shook hands, and the Commissioner, moving fast for a man so portly, greeted both the Secretary-General of Interpol and the Chief of Scotland Yard. Ben kept his polite smile fixed in place as his eyes scanned the room for threats. He knew from experience that SHIELD had the place sealed tighter than a drum, but Ben couldn’t shake the vague anxiety that plagued him at these sorts of events.

The delegations began to move, the tide of suits carrying Ben into the conference room. He was grateful to find his place at a table near the back, adjacent to the aisle. In case of fire, or, more likely, a lower back spasm from the uncomfortable chairs that inevitably filled hotel conference rooms, he’d be able to make a quick exit.

The guest of honour, of course, would be arriving last, and Ben endured long minutes of questions from those at his table — tonight he was seated with the British, French, and Canadian Ministers of Culture — about his experience policing the far North. He described some of his father’s more interesting cases, leaving many of his own by the wayside, because he wasn’t supposed to talk about Chicago at these functions.

The cadence of his own voice sounded like a distant river while his thoughts ran elsewhere. He could almost hear Ray Vecchio teasing him about actually being paid to do this in Canada. Ben hadn’t spoken to Ray much since the funeral, since every time he did, Ray encouraged Ben to come to Florida for an extended vacation.

“Come on, Benny! Sand and sun may not help, but it can’t hurt, right? Just put on lots of sunscreen, so you don’t turn the colour of your uniform, and you’ll be good to go.”

Ben could never take him up on the offer, though; he knew how Stella would look at him.

At last, the Americans arrived, the President leading them to the raised platform at the front of the room, where they remained standing behind the long table, leaving its middle seat empty. The assembled dignitaries rose, and the Canadian national anthem began. It was followed by the French and the British, and finally by a moment of silence. As one, the guests turned to the back of the room and watched the door reverently.

Ben had a sudden memory of waiting to walk Maggie down the aisle seven years ago. Ray, at the front of the church with the other groomsmen, had described to him afterwards the experience of looking out into a room full of people’s backs.

“I didn’t notice at my wedding. I was probably too busy trying not to pass out, but it was freaky, Ben. I could’ve danced a jig or picked my nose or even flipped Vecchio the bird.”

He didn’t do any of those things, of course, but when Ben entered with Maggie, Ray’s smile was only for him. Ben held on to that smile, the memory of that happy day, as the fanfare started again, and the guest of honour walked up the aisle to the American national anthem.

But this was no blushing bride.

Captain America looked every inch a legend, even without the famous star-spangled outfit. His blonde hair was parted and combed to one side, and his blue eyes were vivid against his dark uniform and khaki necktie. The brown service coat fitted his broad shoulders and narrow waist like it had been made for him, and perhaps it had; Ben wondered if it was a replica, or if, like Captain Rogers himself, it had been remarkably well-preserved since 1945.

The tunic’s sparse accoutrements surprised Ben; there were only a few proficiency badges pinned above his Purple Heart and Medal of Valor. Were it not for his sure step and commanding presence, Captain Rogers might have seemed out of place amongst the generals who’d entered before him, each sporting a vast array of shoulder patches, medals, badges, and aiguillettes. Ben found himself staring, as captivated as everyone else by this storybook war hero brought to life in living colour and taut muscle.

Captain Rogers looked Ben up and down as he passed, and a slight shadow seemed to cross his face. Ben met those blue eyes — so like... — and for a few seconds, he couldn’t help but think that, despite the pageantry and celebration, Steve Rogers looked as lost and lonely as Ben felt.

Then Captain America moved past him, taking his place at the front of the room.

* * *

Ben had forgotten how salty American food could be. He choked down as much as he could, then pushed the rest around his plate, trying not to stare too obviously at Captain Rogers, who seemed to be doing the same thing on the other side of the room.

After dinner came speeches — just like at a wedding, they were lengthy and more than a little meandering, and they had the occasional side effect of making the guest of honour blush. When this happened, Ben could hardly look away from the sign of vulnerability in one so seemingly unshakeable. Most of the time, however, Captain Rogers merely sat up straight with a slightly rigid smile, and Ben recognized the posture. Even without the bright costume, Captain America’s mask was fixed firmly in place.

A few times, Ben met the Captain’s eyes from across the room. Once, when Captain Rogers had just straightened in his seat in response to the British Prime Minister’s mentioning his collection of _Captain America_ comic books, Ben sent him a sympathetic smile, and he was surprised to get one in return. He ducked his head immediately, the heat of a flush spreading under his tight collar.

At long last, the leaders of the three visiting nations stepped up to the stage, and Captain Rogers stood, tall and imposing, to greet them. He looked almost relieved when the American President announced that there were no military medals to represent the combined thanks of the Allies, so instead he would be receiving a mahogany plaque commemorating his years of service and the pivotal role he and his Howling Commandos had played in ending the Second World War. Captain Rogers accepted it with a plastic smile, shaking hands and posing with each leader in turn as cameras flashed and the audience applauded.

Finally, Captain Rogers took the podium and waited for the noise to subside. Ben recognized in him the stiff look of police officers who’d worked too hard and been through too much, but it was undercut by the softness of his eyes, his slight gestures of surprise and embarrassment, like he couldn’t believe all the fuss being made when he was just doing his job. It was achingly familiar, and Ben found himself swallowing hard when Captain Rogers glanced at him in the split-second before he bent his head to consult his notes.

“The war may have ended over a half a century ago for everyone in this room,” he began, “but for me it’s only been a few months since I was fighting overseas, gaining ground for the Allies, little by little. I never would have guessed that one day I’d be going down with the ship and the next I’d wake up in a future where everyone is obsessed with little gadgets.”

The audience tittered as he dug a smartphone from the front pocket of his uniform. “When SHIELD gave me this, they told me it was connected to a satellite, that it could find me if I got lost.

“Pretty remarkable,” he added softly. He contemplated the phone for a moment, then set it down on the podium and carried on in a louder voice. “I’ve seen some crazy things the last few months. Seems like I spend all my time just trying to catch up. Apparently, I missed out on a lot. But I still don’t see any of those flying cars Stark promised me.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd again. “See, growing up, I always thought by now the world would be a better place, and in a lot of ways it probably is. My generation, we were right about some things, except for the flying cars, but where we went wrong was in thinking that world conflict would end. New York taught us that warfare isn’t going away any time soon.”

The room went completely silent, and Captain Rogers’ mouth tightened. “Today, you thanked me for my work in bringing history’s most devastating war to an end. But it doesn’t change the fact that millions — _billions_ — of people have died unjustly in these battles. Family, friends, comrades, partners who should have survived didn’t. Many people who should be here today aren’t. I look around at our great nations, and I can’t help but feel that we’ve—”

Captain Rogers hesitated, and Ben could pinpoint the second his mask went back on.

“That the best is still yet to come. We’re facing threats that were unimaginable seventy years ago. Aliens, other dimensions, technology — these were just science fiction when I was young. Life has become something unfamiliar to a lot of us. There are days, like in New York, when terror and fear seem to reign. So, I say to you tonight: we must continue to fight for peace and justice in this changing world. Because it’s a good fight. And it's where I'll be.”

He nodded, somewhat grimly. “Thank you,” he added quietly and moved back to his seat as the room erupted once more into applause and cheers.

* * *

From that point on, the evening degenerated, quickly becoming yet another entry in Ben’s internal catalogue of drunken bureaucratic affairs. One of the British generals, after several glasses of red wine, started asking Ben about the nuclear submarine that he and Ray had recovered from the Arctic. Ben dug up a smile and recounted the details, wondering how long it would take for that story to cease being interesting, since a dozen years clearly hadn’t done the trick.

Ben ached. The room was too noisy, the crowd and its questions oppressive. Ray always knew when he needed space, even better than Ben himself; he could send Ben a look and just know. He’d get to work on getting Ben out, and if he couldn’t, he’d draw Ben’s attention to him, create a little pocket for the two of them, even just for a few moments. It was enough to let Ben breathe, which he sometimes forgot how to do when surrounded by people.

So as soon as Ben could do so politely, he fled. He kept his head down, trusting that his uniform would get him past the SHIELD agents stationed between the conference room and the front doors. It did, and finally, he was in the cool night air, but he kept moving, taking a sharp left across a corner of the parking lot until he found a patch of grass, damp and glittering in the spillover from the hotel’s external floodlights.

Around him, Washington seemed quiet, though he knew it wasn’t. He breathed in the city smell — the American city smell — with his eyes closed. After a minute, he realized that he’d left his hat on the table inside and that he didn’t care enough to go back and get it.

The wind had grown. Ben looked up when the flag pole clanged above him, watching the flag flutter. When he first came to Chicago, he’d been struck by the number of American flags flying everywhere. It seemed to him there were more American flags in America than Canadian flags in Canada, but he didn’t trust this observation, wondering if perhaps he only didn’t notice the Canadian flags since they were more familiar to him. Finally, when Ray immigrated, Ben had been able to get a second opinion.

“Could be you don’t notice,” Ray had said. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if there are more flags flying south of the border. We like Old Glory a lot. Even put it on a super soldier in World War Two, remember?”

“I thought all soldiers wore flags,” Ben had replied, not familiar with the story of Captain America.

“No, no, no, not this guy,” Ray had interrupted. “This guy, he had a flag for a suit. My grandpa actually met him once. He used to tell me all about the time the USO brought Captain America to Chicago. Dad had these cards...”

Ben wondered how they would have reacted, had Damian Kowalski or his son lived long enough to see their hero found and brought back to life.

“Hey,” said a quiet voice. Ben jumped and spun.

Behind him, Captain Rogers held his hands up near his chest and smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Thought you heard me.”

Ben tried to regulate his breathing. “Evidently not. It would appear that I was woolgathering.”

Captain Rogers quirked his eyebrows at the expression, and Ben felt his face heat. “It’s something my grandmother used to say,” he muttered. “It means—”

“Daydreaming. I know.” The Captain tilted his head in the direction of the hotel. “Hope you don’t mind the company. I couldn’t help seeing you sneak out. Uniform’s kind of an attention-getter.”

Ben looked down, embarrassed again. “Yes. It— it is a bit loud, isn’t it?”

Captain Rogers chuckled. “I don’t think I’m qualified to judge on that score. Didn’t catch your name.”

“Benton. Fraser.” Ben took a breath and tried again. “Sergeant Benton Fraser of the RCMP. It’s an honour, Captain Rogers.”

The other man winced a little. “Please. Call me Steve, Sergeant,” he said as they shook hands.

“In that case, I’m Ben.”

Steve came to stand beside Ben, who out of habit had adopted a parade rest stance. With a glance, Steve noted his posture and mirrored it, his shoulder nearly brushing Ben’s.

“How many years?” he asked in a low voice, not taking his eyes off the cityscape before them.

“Twenty-eight.”

“Army or air?”

“Neither.”

Steve shot him a curious look, so Ben elaborated, explaining the origins of the RCMP as a paramilitary force, along with a brief explanation of his current role and duties.

“That explains it,” Steve replied. “I wondered why nobody else was wearing red.”

“They seem to like dressing me up and putting me on display,” Ben said bitterly, shocking himself with his own candour.

“Yeah, I can relate. Monkey on a unicycle here.”

Ben frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with that particular American expression.”

To his surprise, Steve laughed. “That’s because it’s not an expression. It’s just how I felt before I fought my way into active service.”

“Ah.”

For the first time in a long time, Ben felt comfortable sharing his solitude with another. Around them, crickets chirped. Faint music drifted out of a car in the parking lot until it pulled away. Above them, the flag continued to dance, its ropes hitting the pole in an arrhythmic pattern.

“I suppose you know that story,” Steve said at length, his voice coming out of the semi-darkness to Ben’s right. “How I went AWOL to get the 107th, disobeyed an express order, and all that?”

“Only fragments,” Ben admitted. “To be perfectly honest, I had never heard of you until I met my— Ray. My American friend.”

“That’s refreshing,” said Steve. Then, in exactly the same mild tone, he added, “Is that who you lost?”

Ben blinked at the horizon, then turned. “I’m sorry?”

Steve didn’t look at him. “Who you lost,” he repeated.

Ben breathed in the silence a few seconds longer. “Yes,” he whispered.

Steve nodded. “Dear friend?”

“Dearest.”

“How long ago?”

“Eight months.” Then Ben heard himself saying what he hadn’t told anyone else. “It was my fault. We were mountain climbing. The cable snapped, and he fell.”

Steve shifted a little, his feet rustling in the grass. “He would’ve caught you.”

“Yes.”

“Every time?”

“Always.”

At length, Steve nodded again. “Mine, too.”

The wind came rushing between them suddenly, and Ben caught the sharp scent of imminent rain.

“What did he do?” asked Steve. “Your... Ray.”

“He— he was a police officer. Like me.”

Steve was silent for a time, then he mumbled, “Sharpshooter.”

“That, too.”

“No. I meant—”

“Oh.” Ben looked away. “Crack shot?”

There was a smile in Steve’s voice. “An ace. Every day he rubbed out somebody trying to take my head off. Put a rifle in his hand, he’s like nobody else in the world.”

Ben remained silent.

“ _Was_ like,” Steve corrected himself a moment later.

“How long ago?” asked Ben, echoing Steve’s earlier question.

“Few months.” Steve shrugged. “Sixty-eight years.”

This quiet revelation was punctuated by the first drops of rain, which seemed to break Ben out of his trance. “We should go back inside before the storm hits in earnest,” he said.

Steve shook his head. “I don’t mind the rain.”

“But your uniform,” Ben protested, though he knew it was futile: if Captain America didn’t want to move, no one could make him.

When Steve next spoke, Ben could hardly hear him. “You know the American expression, ‘come hell or high water’?”

“That one I’m familiar with, yes.”

“That was me and Bucky. ‘I’m with you to the end of the line,’ he told me. Knew him forever. Always had my back. I figured our lines would end together, you know? We met and...”

“Tangled?” Ben suggested gently.

Steve twitched, like he’d forgotten Ben was there. He blinked several times before turning to look him steadily in the eye with his chin raised. “Yes,” he said, and it was almost defiant.

Ben didn’t look away as he nodded.

Steve’s posture eased a little. “And now I’m here. Like I hadn’t lost enough.” He stared at Ben a second longer, then seemed to snap out of a daze. “I should probably...”

Steve made to turn back, but Ben reached out, caught him by the wrist, and held on.

“Don’t. Stay,” he breathed. If he had to be the one to ask, he could. He had before, on the day Ray was supposed to start back to Chicago after their quest for the hand of Franklin ended. Ben had had to say it; Ray never would. Maybe he couldn’t.

Steve glanced down at Ben’s hand, pale against the dark sleeve, then met Ben’s eyes again. Ben knew Steve could break free, break every bone in his body if he wanted to, but he was willing to risk it; he’d spent too much of his life watching people turn away.

Steve’s expression was neutral, but his breathing had become more shallow, and Ben could feel his own pulse quickening. Slowly, Ben raised his other hand, brushed his fingers against Steve’s cheek. Steve leaned into the touch, and as Ben lowered his hand, Steve reached for it and closed the gap between them.

This close, Ben couldn’t look away. In the dim light, Steve’s eyes were dark, but Ben knew they were blue, always blue. He inhaled Steve’s scent, a clean combination of shaving lather, glycerine soap, and the hint of a faintly spicy cologne. He leaned in, and Steve did the same. Their lips met — Ben had a fleeting taste of rainwater — before Steve pulled back.

“I’m not him,” he sighed.

“I’m not, either,” Ben replied without hesitation.

Steve looked over Ben’s shoulder a moment, his eyes clouded like he could see the past. Around them, the rain fell harder, gluing Ben’s tunic to his back. He suppressed a shiver, since shivering might lead to moving, and he never wanted to move from this spot, this pocket of the world made only for them.

As if he’d read Ben’s thoughts, Steve murmured, “Just you and me. No one else here?”

“Just you and me,” Ben repeated.

Steve met his eyes briefly, then leaned in again, his breath warm against Ben’s lips. “Okay.”

Then he was kissing Ben, and it wasn’t chaste or hesitant anymore; Steve’s mouth pulled at Ben’s, demanding and urgent and suddenly hot despite the cold rain that coated their lips. For a few seconds, Ben was spinning, his whole body tingling, his hand still tight on Steve’s wrist. Then he was opening to the kiss, allowing Steve’s tongue to lick at his own. Steve’s medals clanked as Ben made fists in his service coat, imagining, yearning for the skin underneath.

Steve’s hands combed water through Ben’s hair, left trails of warmth down his neck, and finally settled at the small of his back, fingers splayed below his dress belt and edging lower. In return, desperate for touch, Ben released his grip on Steve’s tunic and slid his fingers up Steve’s arms — the muscle hard and well-defined even under the thick fabric — then along his neck, and finally into his hair, now dark and tangled with rain. Steve reacted with a slight grunt and yanked Ben’s hips forward to collide with his. He could suddenly feel Steve’s erection beside his own and, resenting the wool that separated them, he tried a new tack, dropping his hands again to wriggle them up under the front of Steve’s uniform.

His fingertips had just brushed the shirt underneath when Steve let Ben go and pulled back. Not quite meeting his eyes, Steve lifted Ben’s hands and brought his fingers back up into his hair. He squeezed Ben’s hands, and Ben thought he understood what Steve wanted, though he couldn’t ask. Ben shifted slightly, twisted his grip, and lightly tugged at the dripping strands. Steve’s eyes fluttered shut and he moaned very softly, so Ben did it again, this time pulling Steve’s mouth back, licking Steve’s rough tongue with his own and gently biting Steve’s bottom lip when he pulled away for periodic breaths of air.

Steve let him dominate the kiss, but his fingers drifted back around Ben’s waist. They slipped, cool and damp, under the back of his tunic and inside the waistband of his jodhpurs, skirting the curve, the cleft of his ass. Ben squirmed at the touch, and his cock rubbed against Steve’s hip.

That friction — the flaring of heat inside the wet wool that bound him — was suddenly too much. He broke away to catch his breath, his blood rushing in his ears. Steve’s mouth kept moving, sucking a rivulet of water off Ben’s chin and planting kisses along his jaw. When he lightly bit Ben’s earlobe, Ben hissed and licked at Steve’s faint, rough stubble, sliding his right hand down Steve’s back to see if he, too, could find some skin under all that serge.

“Captain Rogers!”

Steve and Ben broke apart as a female voice echoed out from the hotel. Steve was suddenly five feet away from Ben and frozen, a statue of combat readiness. When no one appeared, Ben guessed that the person had shouted in the opposite direction, that they’d been tricked by the Doppler effect, and the interloper was still far away. He worked consciously to slow his breathing as Steve clenched and unclenched his fists, becoming even more intimidating.

A moment later, the blonde SHIELD agent who had accompanied Ben earlier rounded the corner of the building, and Steve visibly relaxed. He threw Ben a quick glance over his shoulder. In his face, Ben saw no sign of the man he’d just been kissing. Steve headed to meet the SHIELD agent, who carried a large black umbrella and kicked up puddles as she hurried across the parking lot. Ben followed, three steps behind.

“Captain Rogers,” she said again when Steve reached her. She didn’t seem to notice Ben, or perhaps she felt he wasn’t worth greeting. “The celebration’s wrapping up, Sir. You should probably be there to—” Her eyes widened suddenly. “Your uniform,” she cried.

Steve glanced down like he’d forgotten what he had on. Ben did the same and was reassured, grateful, for the first time all evening, for the heavy serge that both he and Steve were wearing, since it hid any and all evidence of their recent activities.

“It’s all right, Tara,” Steve replied. “It’s just a little rain. Lead on, I’ll be there in a minute.”

The SHIELD agent hesitated, then smiled and turned away. Steve watched her till she disappeared, then faced Ben again. He wasn’t Captain America anymore, or even Captain Rogers. He was just Steve, unmasked and unshielded. Ben wondered if anyone since Bucky had seen him like this.

Then, with a jolt of guilt, he wondered if this was how Ray had felt about him when he went from being Fraser to Ben. That was the first time they made love, and Ben had struggled to ask for what he wanted. He recognized that same look of uncertainty in Steve’s face, which was smoothing out quickly.

Ben gulped, then let the words out in a rush. “Can I see you again?”

Steve raised his eyebrows in surprise. “When?”

“Now. Soon. After the event,” Ben stammered.

Steve surveyed him closely a moment longer, then turned slightly away. The SHIELD agent had reappeared behind him. He nodded.

“Sergeant,” he said, his voice brisk and too loud.

“Captain,” Ben replied in the same tone, and he watched Steve walk away.

* * *

Ben ducked into the conference room and deliberately did not notice Steve talking to the Canadian Prime Minister. He retrieved his hat, and then found his superior officer, who took one look at Ben’s rain-soaked apparel and assured him he was dismissed for the night.

He went straight up to his room and began peeling off the wet layers, shivering slightly. He bundled the clothes into the bathroom sink, stepped into the shower, and tried to relax. His body remained tense, however, despite the hot water; he felt energy humming beneath his skin. He brushed his fingers against his sensitive lips and noticed a slight jolt in the pit of his stomach.

Still aroused, he realized with faint surprise. It had been months.

Right after Ray fell, Ben had found it agreeable — distracting — to pleasure himself every night, even if the smell of semen in what used to be their bed sometimes made him weep. He’d reach his hand out to Ray’s half, cold and empty, and pull Ray’s pillow, which still faintly carried his scent, against his chest. With it in his arms, he could interlace his fingers and fall asleep almost convinced he wasn’t alone.

The mornings soon became too painful, though. Ben had had twelve years of waking up with his body having become stuck to Ray’s overnight; peeling the pillow away every morning meant facing the previous night’s deception. So he put Ray’s pillow on the top shelf of the closet and slept on a bedroll in the living room until his sex drive had once again dwindled to nothing. It didn’t take long; between Victoria and Ray, he’d sworn it would remain non-existent, so he had only to convince himself that it could be so again, that it could be as it was before Ray tumbled into his heart and pulled Ben into his bed.

And it was non-existent. Until now. Until Steve—

Ben made the water colder and washed his hair methodically. By the the time he turned off the spray and stepped out, he felt more in control. He dried himself quickly and draped the towel, along with his wet uniform, over the side of the tub. As he stepped out of the bathroom, he thought vaguely of turning on the television once he was dressed.

But he was stopped short by a knock. He pulled on the navy sweatpants he’d left on the bureau and swung the door open.

Steve Rogers was standing in the hall. He had changed his clothes and dried his hair. In jeans and a plaid button-down shirt, he looked healthy, wholesome, and solid, but plain, like there was nothing under the surface; a corn-fed Iowa boy, Ben thought abruptly, borrowing the expression from Ray’s mother. Ben was suddenly, shamefully aware that he wasn’t wearing a shirt, that his body was ageing, flawed; Steve’s perfect physique was breathtaking. He looked so young.

Ben must have spoken the words aloud because Steve smiled wryly. “I’m a lot older than I look, you know. Older than you.”

Ben flushed and stepped aside, holding the door open. “I know, I’m—”

“Sorry,” Steve mumbled, not moving. “Maybe I should just go.”

“No. Please, come in.”

Steve did, but his posture was ramrod straight, and Ben could see the mask snapping back into place. “Look, I’m sorry about earlier. I was taking advantage.”

 _Me too,_ Ben should have said, but he didn’t. He found himself approaching Steve instead, and, when Steve didn’t resist, he took Steve’s hand in his own and led him toward the bed, motioning that he should sit. He did, and Ben noticed he had something squeezed tightly in his left fist. A ball chain was looped around his index finger; the skin was going white from reduced circulation. Steve caught him looking, and he opened his hand reluctantly.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes’ dog tags were worn but not rusted.

“Bucky’s?” Ben asked.

Steve nodded, the mask slipping away again. “They’re not— they’re copies. His sister’s granddaughter thought I should have them.”

Ben shot a glance at the silver bracelet on the nightstand. It was a copy, too.

He dug a t-shirt out of his suitcase and pulled it over his head. Steve was looking down at the tags again, but he glanced up when Ben sat beside him.

“You probably want to go to bed. I won’t keep you,” Steve muttered, making like he was going to stand.

Ben stopped him with a hand on his thigh. “Tell me about him,” he said.

* * *

Steve spoke haltingly, trailing off and interrupting himself. He didn’t seem to have much to say about the war, and Ben didn’t push, so Steve told vague stories about life in Brooklyn, about Bucky before he shipped out.

An hour later, Ben was laughing harder than he had in a long time as Steve told him about a disastrous double date in 1941. Bucky had made Steve ride the Cyclone at Coney Island, but it ended their date abruptly because Steve threw up all over Tina Morelli’s patent leather shoes.

“And Bucky says, ‘You know, it’s just as well. I was feeling green, too, the way she kept looking at you, Stevie’ — he called me Stevie, nobody else ever did — 'and we both know I can’t upchuck in public. I got a reputation to protect.’” Steve laughed and dropped the exaggerated accent. “Arrogant punk. But I got him back.”

“How?”

Steve’s smile started to fade, so Ben decided to distract him with a story of his own. He told Steve about Maggie’s wedding, about how he manipulated the circumstances to ensure that the maid of honour, who’d been insisting that Ray dance with her for every slow song, would walk in on him and Ray kissing in the coat room. The story got Steve smiling again, but his face was still tinged with sadness.

“Was Ray a good dancer?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. Very.”

“Bucky, too. But he did real dancing.” Ben gave him a puzzled look, and Steve grinned. “I’m just saying, whatever you guys do nowadays, that’s not dancing.”

Ben considered a rebuttal, then changed his mind. “Fair enough.”

“You dance?”

“A little. Ray was much better at it than I. Though my grandmother did teach me to waltz when I was a teenager. You?”

"I never learned." Steve dropped his eyes to the floor. “Peggy and I, we wanted to. She was going to teach me, but...”

Steve trailed off and fell silent. Ben wanted to tell another story, get them laughing again, but he couldn’t think of any.

“Thank you,” Steve said, looking up after a few minutes. “I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

“You don’t have to be.”

There was a subtle tightening of the lines in Steve’s face, and Ben realized how his words had sounded. He cleared his throat and hurried to add, “I don’t mean we’d— nothing has to... I just mean you don’t have to be alone. We can keep talking, or sleep, or...” Ben gave up, biting the inside of his mouth.

Steve didn’t reply, but he didn’t move, either. He was looking at Ben but not meeting his eyes. It reminded Ben of when they were kissing earlier, so much so that he wanted to touch Steve’s hair again. But he forced himself not to, convinced himself he could wait, that he could handle Steve’s answer.

When it came, it wasn’t what Ben was expecting. Steve, very calmly, stood up and set Bucky’s dog tags on the bureau. When he turned back around, he bent slightly and kissed Ben, slowly and sweetly. Ben closed his eyes and let it happen, let Steve tilt him until he was lying on his back and Steve was half on top of him, his arms framing his shoulders.

Ben raised his hands to Steve’s sides, and Steve went still. “Sorry,” Ben said hastily, pulling back like he’d been burned. “Do you want to stop?”

“I... should,” Steve replied carefully.

Ben was reminded again of the first time he and Ray made love, the way Ray had asked at every threshold, forcing him to own his wants. “I didn’t ask if you _should_ stop,” he reminded Steve gently. He could almost hear Ray’s voice intermingled with his. “I asked if you wanted to.”

“No,” Steve whispered.

“Me, neither. Can I touch you?”

“Please.”

Ben reached up, ran his fingers gently through the soft strands of Steve’s hair. All at once Steve seemed to surrender, pressing his face against Ben’s hand and kissing his palm. His tongue darted out from between his lips and skimmed the inside of Ben’s fingers, an electrifying sensation that made Ben’s breath catch in his throat. His eyes closed again, and suddenly he felt himself being moved; Steve had put an arm under his back and lifted him easily until they were both on their feet and standing close enough to breathe one another’s air.

“Tell me what I can do for you,” Ben said. He’d always liked it when Ray said that.

Steve didn’t answer, though. He licked his lips, and Ben had a flash of instinct. “Or do you want me to lead?”

Steve let out a sigh of relief. “Yes,” he replied earnestly.

Ben nodded. He understood. He remembered the freedom, the joy, of coming home after a hard day of doing his duty, and taking comfort in knowing that he could trust Ray to make the decisions, to lead. Steve was duty and leadership personified. He had had a long and trying day, and he was willing to trust Ben to do this for him. Ben could. Ben would. He wanted to take the weight off Steve’s shoulders, the way Ray had done for him.

“One condition,” Ben said, again hearing Ray’s voice in his own.

“If you’re worried about hurting me, you can’t,” Steve interrupted. “And even if you could, I don’t think you would.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Ben agreed. “But that’s not what I was going to say. I just want you to know that you can change your mind,” he insisted.

Steve assessed him closely. “Understood,” he said at last.

Ben smiled at the familiar expression and kissed him. Steve opened to it, so Ben deepened the kiss, bringing his right hand to the back of Steve’s head while gently pushing on Steve’s chest with his left. He walked Steve backwards until he was pressing him against the wall, burying his fingers in Steve’s hair again, tightening them slightly. Steve made a small noise into his mouth and gripped his waist, holding Ben so their hips were together. Ben ground up against him for a moment, then eased back enough that he could unbutton Steve’s plaid shirt. He glided his left hand over the inner t-shirt that hugged the firm muscles of his chest. The fabric was old, worn soft from multiple washings, almost silky under Ben’s hand as he slid down to the fly of Steve’s jeans.

Steve let go, seeming to realize what Ben was doing, and relaxed further against the wall. Ben broke the kiss so he could concentrate on working Steve’s cock out from behind the tight denim. It was already hard and dusky with blood, cut and perfectly proportionate. The smooth skin warmed Ben’s hand and made his mouth water. He started kissing Steve again as he pumped it, slowly and steadily, rubbing his own erection against Steve’s hip. He imagined pulling himself out, wrapping his hand around both of them, getting off right here, still in his clothes, just from the feel of that hot slick skin against his.

Then he realized that he wanted to see, touch, and taste the rest of Steve’s skin even more.

“Shirt off,” he instructed, working the thin plaid top over Steve’s shoulders even as Steve began to lift the hem of his white t-shirt. “Come here,” he said once Steve’s chest was bare.

Steve followed him to the bed. Ben laid him on his back, straddling him much the same way Steve had earlier. But Ben leaned over further, practically covering Steve’s body with his own. Ben felt the pressure of Steve’s cock against his belly, warm and hard. He licked his way down Steve’s slightly salty skin, blowing air everywhere his tongue went, watching goose pimples rise on Steve’s flesh. His tongue skated from Steve’s ear to the hollow of his throat, from his collarbone down to his chest. Steve arched up slightly as Ben’s mouth closed over his left nipple.

“Do you like that?” he asked into Steve’s skin.

“Yes,” Steve gasped. “Yes, harder.”

Ben spent long minutes adoring Steve’s chest, flicking his tongue, grazing his teeth lightly over each nipple in turn, licking the fingers of one hand to tease the side he wasn’t mouthing. When Steve was writhing beneath him, the head of his cock leaving a wet stripe on Ben’s skin, he slid lower, licking around Steve’s navel once before tracing a warm line down to the V of his open jeans. Ben kissed Steve’s dick, teased the slit with his tongue, then pulled away.

“Pants now?” he suggested.

Steve nodded wordlessly and lifted his hips to pull the jeans down over his thighs. Ben took them the rest of the way, tugging off Steve’s shoes and socks as well before starting on his own clothes. He stopped, however, the bottom hem of his t-shirt still clutched in his hands, when he realized that Steve was watching him with heavily-lidded eyes.

“Turn on the lamp?” he asked.

When Steve did, Ben extinguished the overhead fluorescent bulb, telling himself it was for Steve, so he didn’t have to look up into that brightness. He shucked his clothes hastily, then got back on the bed and lowered his mouth to tongue Steve’s navel again.

“Give me your hands,” Ben murmured, raising them to his own hair and squeezing like Steve had before. Steve caught on quickly, threading his fingers in the slightly curly strands and twisting a little the way Ray did when Ben went down on him. He mouthed the tip of Steve’s cock, circling it with his tongue, before taking it as deep as he could. Steve let out a ragged breath and tightened his grip on Ben’s hair.

Ben had forgotten how much he loved this, big warm hands holding his head, the hot weight of a man in his mouth, the stretch of his jaw, the feeling of his own erection digging into the soft fabric of the bedspread. He moved up to his knees to get some space, then licked his palm and wrapped it around Steve’s shaft and brought his lips down to meet his fist.

Steve muttered something vaguely sacrilegious when Ben moved his hands down to his balls, high and tight and burning hot, and took his cock deep again. Ben could tell Steve was trying to be quiet, and hearing him fight his pleasure triggered an urge in Ben to see him lose this battle.

He pulled up, letting Steve’s cock slip from between his lips. “Should I keep going?” Ben asked, and Steve’s eyes flickered open. “Or would you rather...?”

But Steve was already shaking his head. He slid his right hand down from Ben’s hair and ran his thumb over Ben’s wet mouth. “Keep going,” he said hoarsely.

Ben began to suck in earnest, hollowing out his cheeks. He brushed his fingers down to Steve’s hole, and Steve rocked his hips up, his cock nudging the roof of Ben’s mouth. So Ben hummed around him and did it again, looking up to see Steve’s face twist with pleasure the split second before his fingers tightened in Ben’s hair, and Steve flooded his mouth.

Ben swallowed the bittersweet fluid hastily, since he knew all too well the guilty look that Steve would get if he choked. He kept Steve’s cock in his mouth until it started to soften, tonguing the tip because it made Steve jolt with surprise, and Ben loved the feel of that big body under him losing control. He was aching with arousal, but he wanted to memorize this moment, Steve stretched out below him, blissful and relaxed with his eyes closed.

Finally, when Steve gave his hair a little tug, Ben made his way back up, once again licking along Steve’s skin. Ben kissed him, and Steve kissed back, licking a bit of his own come from the corner of Ben’s mouth. It was dirty and hot, and Ben started moving his hips, content to rub himself off against Steve’s smooth skin.

But Steve gripped his sides firmly and pulled his mouth back. Ben realized what he was doing and forced his pleasure-stupid brain to focus enough to stop. He raised himself on his forearms, looking down into Steve’s determined features.

“Will you fuck me?” Steve asked quietly.

Ice slid down Ben’s throat. “Are you sure?”

Steve nodded. His fingers rubbed Ben’s biceps, creating a shivery, wispy feeling that raised gooseflesh along his arms.

Ben’s mouth worked for a moment, but still only half the question came out. “How...?”

Steve spread his arms wide, shrugged, and Ben remembered their agreement. “You want me to decide?”

Steve nodded again, and Ben had to distract himself from that look of utter surrender, so he pushed off the bed and went to his suitcase.

He felt his whole body trembling, his hands fumbling on the zipper, his tongue coming out to lick his kiss-swollen lips again and again. He took his time digging for the Vaseline he knew he’d packed, though never in his lifetime had he imagined putting it to this use.

“I don’t have any condoms,” he said over his shoulder, hoping to explain his delay.

“Are you sick?” asked Steve.

“No.”

“Neither am I. In fact, I can’t get sick, so I don’t think we have to worry about it.”

“Right. Super soldier,” Ben said to himself with a quiet laugh that bordered on hysterical.

When he could put it off no longer, Ben turned with the little tub in his hand to find Steve had moved the end of the bed and was sitting, looking up at him with complete trust in his eyes.

Ben swallowed hard. “Uh,” he choked, unsure of how to begin.

“Here,” Steve said gently. “Let me help.” He moved forward and reached for Ben’s cock, which had lost its hardness in the last several minutes. “Relax,” he told Ben’s inner thigh.

Ben closed his eyes. His head swam as his blood travelled southward, drawn like a magnet to Steve’s mouth. Steve teased him, moving his tongue around Ben’s shaft, turning him on enough so that Ben could slide back into the driver’s seat, which was likely Steve’s intention all along.

Ben pushed Steve back and crawled up to straddle him. He kissed Steve a moment, then reached down to find Steve’s cock surprisingly hard again. He pulled back a little, and Steve chuckled, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

Right. Super soldier, Ben told himself again. He worked his way back down, mouthing Steve’s chest the way he had earlier, but not lingering this time. He licked the tip of Steve’s cock once before taking the lid off the Vaseline. He slid one coated finger down over Steve’s perineum and circled his hole, glancing up for confirmation before spreading Steve’s legs and slipping in. Steve moaned softly as Ben slowly went deeper, up to the second knuckle.

“Is this okay?” he asked, just to be sure.

“Very,” Steve panted.

“Been a while,” Ben commented, as he pulled his finger back and started to move it in a steady rhythm.

“Only half a century... give or take.” Steve smiled down at him. “You don’t have to go slow.”

The words triggered a shudder of desire that Ben struggled to tamp down. “What if I want to?” he replied, his voice sounding rough to his own ears.

“Don’t make me pull rank, Sergeant,” Steve began, but he broke off with a gasp when Ben added a second finger.

Steve made fists in the bedspread and his cock jumped when Ben got all the way in and fluttered his fingertips slightly. He pulled back, slid in again, and did the same. This time, Steve let out a sharp breath and every muscle in his abdomen clenched, then released. Ben continued in this rhythm as long as he could, letting the sight of Steve’s pleasure build his own. When a drop of pre-come welled at the tip of Steve’s cock and clung there, Ben leaned down and licked it away absently.

“Fuck,” Steve whispered.

Ben decided to take that as an order and pulled his fingers out. “Roll over?” he asked. Steve obeyed without question, and Ben’s heart swelled again, wondering how he’d ever earned this man’s trust.

He got to work on rewarding that trust, squeezing the base of his cock and spreading Vaseline along it, taking advantage of the time to admire the perfect body in front of him. Steve was on his hands and knees, the muscles from his broad shoulders down to his narrow waist and perfect ass highlighted by a thin sheen of sweat. He was vulnerable and open, his powerful thighs spread ready and waiting.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Ben muttered without really meaning to.

Steve huffed out a little laugh and rolled his hips against Ben’s, reminding Ben of what he was supposed to be doing. He rested one hand on Steve’s hip, holding him open with the other, and pressed his cock against Steve’s hole. He took a breath, hearing Steve do the same, and pushed in as they both exhaled.

Steve’s body was tight and hot and wonderful around him. He was opened and slick, and Ben started sucking in air, fighting the urge to thrust in all at once. He focused his pleasure-drenched brain again, and moved slowly, listening to Steve’s breathing, making sure he wasn’t in any pain.

Steve made an exasperated noise when he was halfway in and pushed backward in a smooth motion, forcing Ben all in the way in and drawing from him a helpless moan. Steve groped back for Ben’s hands, placing one on his waist and the other up near his shoulder. He squeezed, so Ben tightened his grip, and Steve lowered himself on to his elbows.

“That’s better,” Steve said, and his voice seemed so loud in the dim room.

Ben suddenly felt the enormity of Steve’s trust again. Steve wanted him to hold him down a little, needed him to, and Ben knew Steve might not need this tomorrow, might not need it from him ever again, and he found himself at peace with that. Giving Steve what he needed tonight felt like something Ray would do, like Ben had found Ray again in this unanticipated encounter.

This epiphany flickered by in a haze of lust as Ben pulled back and thrust in again. Steve shuddered beneath his hands, the sensation setting Ben’s nerves on fire. Steve pushed back unevenly, and Ben matched Steve’s pace, letting himself go, fucking in and out of Steve’s smooth body, his slippery skin like butter under his fingers.

They were breathing and grunting together now, Ben’s abs and thighs burning as their bodies collided. He circled his hand around Steve’s waist and began stroking his cock. Steve levered himself up, tried to push Ben’s hand away, but Ben held on, rocking in sync with his thrusts. Faster, harder.

“You first,” Ben breathed into Steve’s neck, and all at once Steve let out another small cry, and Ben’s fist was hot and wet, and he let himself follow, wordless sentences running from his mouth into Steve’s shoulder as the world whited out, his perception narrowed to the sensation of Steve contracting around him and quivering under his hands.

When the world eventually came back, and Ben pulled out, Steve lowered himself and lay facedown on the pillow. Ben stayed where he was, his face buried in Steve’s neck for a moment, feeling their heart rates slow.

“Good?” he whispered.

“Great,” Steve mumbled.

Ben kissed the soft skin beneath Steve’s ear and rolled off. They moved sleepily, getting under the bed clothes, and once they were settled, Steve shifted onto his side and pulled Ben into his arms so that Ben’s back was pressed against his chest. Steve's hold felt less like affection and more like protection until his fingers brushed through Ben’s hair. Ben relaxed and started to drift, floating on the endorphins and the comfort of a warm body pressed up against his.

After a while, Steve’s breathing evened out, and his fingers stopped moving.

* * *

Ben must have dozed, because when he next opened his eyes there was a crick in his neck that hadn’t been there before. He shifted, intending to wriggle more onto the pillow, but the instant he moved, Steve’s arms tightened around him. He squirmed, but it was no use; the more he moved, the more strength Steve exerted to hold him in place, and Ben soon found he couldn’t breathe.

“Steve, it’s all right,” he gasped. “It’s all right, Steve, let go. Let go.”

At once, Steve’s arms loosened, and Ben gulped in some air. He assumed that Steve would apologize, but he didn’t. Instead, he moved Ben easily, putting some space between them and turning him so they were facing one another. Ben saw that his eyes were still closed.

“You rest, Buck,” Steve muttered. “I got this watch.”

Ben held himself very still and tried to breathe normally, watching Steve with wide eyes. Even though Steve didn’t move again, Ben waited several minutes before slowly and carefully reaching over to turn out the lamp.

He lay awake for a long time staring up at the dark ceiling, but finally, lulled by Steve’s deep, steady breathing, his fatigue started to slip over him, closer and warmer than the soft coverlet.

* * *

An insistent buzzing and chirping startled Ben out of dream in which Ray was laughing and talking to him.

Dispatch, Ben thought vaguely, stretching a hand over to fumble on the right side of the bed, where Ray’s head used to be, and where he normally set his phone every night. But instead of cold sheets, he found something warm and soft. Something moving.

Then a sharp male voice said, “Rogers,” and Ben’s sleep fog lifted enough for him to remember that he was in a hotel room in Washington, DC. In bed. With Captain America.

“Yeah, just a minute,” Steve was saying, and the bed protested with a groan as he stood and made his way out from under the blankets and stumbled in the direction of the bathroom, the illuminated screen outlining his profile.

Faint daylight was filtering in around the edges of the curtains. Ben flicked on the lamp and listened to the rumble of Steve’s voice on the other side of the bathroom door. He wondered if duty had called, if Steve would have to rush out on an urgent mission. Perhaps Steve would lie about an urgent mission to have an excuse to leave quickly, spare them both an awkward goodbye.

Despite the light, Ben’s eyes drifted closed, and he found himself floating back into his dream. Ray was laughing again, and he wouldn’t tell him why. Instead, he kept saying, “Come home, come home, Ben. Come home.”

“I will,” Ben tried to say, but suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and Steve’s face was only inches away from his.

“Sorry, Ben. I have to go,” he said, and Ben could tell from his tone that he was repeating himself. “Thank you for... well. Thanks.”

Ben sat up. “You, too,” he said, despite his dry mouth. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah.” Steve headed over to the bureau and pulled Bucky’s dog tags over his head before starting to dress. “Everything’s fine. No alien invasions.” Then he froze, his fingers on the zipper of his jeans. “Yet.”

Ben couldn’t tell if Steve was joking or not, and he was too tired to guess. He extracted himself from the bed and began hunting for his own clothes. “Well, aliens or no, take care of yourself,” he said simply.

“You, too,” Steve replied quietly. “How long are you in DC?”

Ben wondered if Steve was asking to see him again. Not that it mattered, since sometime between last night and this morning, he found he’d decided on a course of action.

“I’m supposed to be here till Sunday, but I’m leaving today. Against orders,” he added, and saying it out loud felt right. “It’s time to go home.”

Steve nodded, buttoning his shirt with steady hands, and met Ben’s eyes. “I get that.”

“I thought you would,” Ben answered and pulled his t-shirt over his head.

“But for me,” Steve began hesitantly, fingering the tags under his shirt, “home’s something I’ve carried around for so long, I’m not sure I know where it is anymore.”

“I get that, too.” Ben leaned in, pressed his lips against Steve’s, intending to give him a chaste goodbye.

But Steve opened to Ben’s mouth, making the kiss as sweet and deep as their first since Steve joined him in his room last night. It lingered for a long moment before Steve drew back, brushing Ben’s neck with his fingers.

“Thank you,” Steve said again. “I think I... needed that.”

“It was no hardship,” Ben answered, attempting a wry smile as he followed Steve toward the door. “And if you ever find yourself in Nunavut—”

“Where?”

“Canada,” Ben corrected himself.

Steve was grinning now. “What would Captain America be doing in Canada?”

Ben shrugged. “How did a Mountie end up in the States?”

“International cooperation?” Steve guessed with a surprisingly teasing wink. He reached for the door handle, then turned back, serious once again. “Goodbye, Ben.”

“Goodbye, Steve.”

* * *

Ben waited until Steve’s footsteps had become inaudible, then he swept the bracelet off the nightstand into his palm. He held it up, twisting and turning it in the lamp light, admiring its silver glint. If he closed his eyes, he could hear Ray’s voice again, his laugh, his firm injunction, like it was echoing in a space that suddenly felt too empty.

He picked up the room phone and hesitated only once before dialling the front desk.

“Yes, hello,” he greeted the young man who answered. “Can you please get me the number for the Reagan airport? I need to book some flights.”

“Flights, Sir?” The concierge seemed puzzled, emphasizing the plural.

“Flights,” Ben repeated, his hand tightening around the cool metal of the bracelet he’d pretended for too long was Ray’s. “I’m going to Nunavut, Canada.”

Ben packed his suitcase and checked out of the hotel two hours later. He left his dress uniform hanging in the closet, and he went home.


End file.
